Little Mishaps
by comptine
Summary: Arthur didn't mean to change France into a child, but he was never quite himself when he was drunk. Until then, Arthur was going to be relearning the joys of fatherhood until he figured out how to change him back. FrUK -notshota-
1. Chapter 1

When Francis first saw Arthur sporting a toga, halo and magic wand, he decided that two-and-a-half bottles of wine were probably enough for him. The stubby little wings flapped furiously as England hovered before him, face aberrantly blissful. He was even tittering happily, which only added to the nation's growing sense of unease.

"Uh, _bonjour._" France said, raising a hand in greeting, "What exactly are you doing here _Angleterre_?"

The giggles increased, making France doubt Arthur's sanity even more. He was a crazy Englishman usually but this was bizarre, even for him. "I'm here because you've been naughty," Arthur said, smiling idyllically, "And I'm going to have to punish you." England may have sounded completely insane but, despite himself, Francis couldn't help feeling turned on.

"Punish me?" He purred, "_Oh Angleterre_, do tell."

Arthur's lips covered his and Francis leaned back, tiny knees settling on his hips, squeezing lightly. He tried to sit up, wanting the angel in his lap, his to devour, but a hand found his chest, pushing him down. Arthur sat back, ass so close to Francis' crotch, and winked at him, "Don't fight," Arthur breathed, shifting on top of France's waist, sending the blood south, "Just sit."

Wondering just how drunk he was going to have to get Arthur back in this state, Francis nodded silently. Deft fingers traced down his chest, teased the flushed skin. Arthur reached into the folds of his robe, pulling out the wand he had been carrying earlier. France watched with hungry eyes as England's tongue flicked out catching the point of the star. He let out a moan of want, bucking his hips.

Arthur head tilted to the side as he gave Francis the sweetest smile. "Idiot," he said innocently and brought the wand down on France's forehead, knocking him unconscious.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

While France's boss had said that the nation was feeling under the weather and wasn't up for seeing anyone, Arthur didn't believe him one bit. Which is why he had managed to sneak past the security - he was a former spy after all so it was all old hat - and clambered in through the window of Francis' parlour. Getting to his feet and dusting off his pants, he noticed the maid staring at him, mouth slightly open.

"Uh, _est-ce-que je peux voir France, s'il-vous-plaît_?" He said, barely able to form the sentence. While he loathed using the language, especially when France was around, he did try when conversing with other people -Blame his boss' new 'open arms' policy towards the bloody EU, next thing you'll know he'll be baking snitzel with Germany, or leaning how to cook with the air headed Italian and his perpetually angry brother.

The woman nodded and hurried out of the room. A few moments later, Francis' head of staff, a bastard old butler whom he and Arthur shared a mutual dislike for each other, appeared, adjusting his white gloves with a deliberate slowness and gazing at Arthur with a haughtiness and disgust one could only associate it with Anglophobia.

"I'm here to see France." England said, not bothering to even try French, the last thing he wanted was to be a mocked by a crotchety old frog.

The butler's wiry moustache twitched. "Monsieur Bonnefoy is indisposed and is not seeing anyone. My deepest apologies," he gave a shallow bow, "Can I escort you out, or perhaps you know the way?"

Folding his arms, Arthur plopped down in the nearest armchair. "I'm staying right here until that lazy ass comes to see me. I know he's hiding up in his room." He snorted and the manservant flinched, "What happened this time? Some pretty little brunette break his heart? They didn't have his favourite wine? Figured out that he's _French_?"

Turning smartly on his heel, the old man lifted his hand and placed it beside his mouth. "Bonnefoy!" He yelled, making the seated nation jump, "You have an angry Englishman that wants to see you in the parlour!" and with that - and perhaps a smirk of victory - he left.

His heartbeat returning to normal, England settled further into his seat. There was a thundering from outside the living room and Arthur looked round just in time to see a small _something_ launch itself at him. It hit him full on the chest and he let out a small yelp, closing his eyes, thinking it was a dwarf come to settle a bet with him. Only once he realized the small thing had no beard and wasn't trying to rip his face off, did he open his eyes.

A tiny Francis sat in his lap, blond hair held back by a large, floppy, crimson bow, while giant blue eyes blinked up at him. "F-france?!" He stuttered, pushing the child off his chest and placing him on his legs. The once long and elegant face was small and slightly chubby, silky fuzz in place of the ragged scruff.

"_Bonjour Angleterre_!" he said, apple red cheeks bright as he smiled toothily, "How good to see you!" Tiny arms crawled around England's neck, yanking him down as Francis clung to him.

Trying to loosen the child from his shoulders - how was he so strong? - while at the same time trying to protect his vital regions from the flailing feet, Arthur managed to choke out, "W-what's happened to you?"

Hands scrabbled at his back, clutching painfully at his skin. "Your wings are gone!" Relaxing his arms, France plopped down onto Arthur's lap, frowning up at him as the nation wheezed for air, "Not to mention your halo! _Quel type d'ange êtes-vous_?"

Due to the lack of oxygen in Arthur's brain, it took him a moment to realize exactly what the young Frenchman was saying, "Wings? Halo?" He pursed his lips, "Oh damn. This didn't happen last week, did it?"

"_Oui._" Turning in Arthur's lap, France let his short legs hang off Arthur's knees, arching his back and staring at him upside-down.

Usually about once a year, twice if he was feeling very lonely and bitter, Arthur made moonshine, infusing it with a little of his own magic. Knowing that he does tend to get a little balmy when he drank it (indeed most of his _supposed_ sex scandals happened after he consumed the concoction) he generally would go into the forest and live with the mystic folk until he regained his usual frame of mind. But sometimes he didn't go into the wood and would end up causing mass pandemonium. This was obviously one of those times.

"F-france," He cleared his throat awkwardly. He could tell the nation that it was all his fault and face the constant ridicule and possibly never have the episode forgotten until the day he croaked. Take that by the fact that France had already been mocking him for over thousand years and he was only twenty-three so that would leave exactly 2,478.26 years of ridicule ahead.

Or he could lie. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well that is unfortunate _Angleterre._ I was so sure it was you. Perhaps it was the wine just playing tricks on me, _oui_?" Francis smiled cheekily at him, hopping forward and sliding off Arthur's legs. "Well, thank you for coming to visit… Perhaps I will see you again."

"Just wait a second… Is there anything I can do to help?"

"There is, perhaps, one thing you can do for me Arthur," registered use of his human name, "But, I don't know if you'd be up for it."

Arthur's pride quirked slightly at the dare in Francis' voice. "Tell me what it is. I'll do anything." He said, rather foolishly, he would realize later.

Smiling innocently and holding out a small pinkie finger, Francis blinked up at him. "Anything?"

Arthur nodded, taking his pinkie in his. Laughing, Francis scrambled onto his lap and placed his lips right next to England's ear whispering it in. When he pulled back, Arthur was staring at him, head shaking.

"No way."

"But Arthur, you said!" Francis plopped down on his lap, tiny hands forming fists and Arthur could almost see the tantrum building in the blue eyes, "You promised! My boss is very angry with me! He's going to kick me out! He said I am only a child and until I grow up, I am no use to him."

Growling, England picked up the child, placing him on the couch, not keen on getting one of those fists in his crotch. "This is different." He said calmly, "You can't expect me to agree to that France." He folded his arms over his chest, huffily staring away from Francis.

Determined not to look at Francis, he broke the moment he heard a small sniffle. Cursing himself for being so soft, he looked over and immediately felt his heart wrench. Francis was sitting with his hands on his knees, trembling and when Arthur stared at him, he looked up. The brilliant eyes, a perfect mix of cerulean and violet stared up at him, shiney due to the tear welling in them.

"_M-mais __vous avez promis_!" Francis sniffed quietly, reaching up a small hand and rubbing his eye while Arthur resisted the urge to cuddle the small nation.

"No." The Englishman choked up, flushing slightly and turning away from Francis again, forcing his eyes closed.

That was, until a small hand wound it's way into his hair, pulling down forcefully. "If you don't agree, I'll tell everyone it was _you_ who did this to me." Francis hissed at him, the cherubim gone, replaced with a very angry toddler. "I may look like I child _Angleterre_, but that doesn't mean I think like one."

Wincing and nodding violently, Arthur waved his hands trying to pull Francis away. "Fine! We have a deal."

The small hand released him. "_Parfait_!" Francis chirupped, slipping off the couch, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, "Then I will be seeing you tomorrow." With that and a small wink, the young Frenchman skipped off, leaving a very ruffled England.

Sighing and trying to calm his hair, Arthur shook his head as he got to his feet. He stared after Francis, putting a hand on his hip. "How do I get myself into these things…" Muttering to himself, he wandered back over to the window, heaving himself out.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Yes, back at the fruk~ First multichapter with them as nations! We'll see how it goes.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Arthur had been up early, not out of anticipation of seeing Francis but more out of a want to get him out of the house as fast and as painlessly as possible. So he had set about perusing his large collection of arcane books, mumbling to himself as morning fell to afternoon. Apparently his drunk-self was an even more powerful spell weaver than his sober-self.

Scowling he threw another book aside, taking out the next one '_Ye Olde Spellbook_' by Anges Nutter and started browsing. It wasn't like France was the intended target. In all reality, and if Arthur was really going to be truthful about it, it would've been Alfred. Warm and sunny halcyon days with his colony were far superior to days with a cross-dressing Frenchman making fun of his hair.

Now even more frustrated, and blushingly so, the Briton was practically tearing through the pages, barely reading the titles. A young America, that he could handle, but Franci-

"Hold up…" He said aloud, hand hesitating on two pages stuck together. Leaning forward, he took a deep breath and smirked. That was definitely his moonshine -he could smell the vanilla he insisted to put in to curve the bitter taste.

Taking extra care, he pulled the two pages apart, pleased to find that the words weren't ruined. Leaning against his bookshelf, he started to read.

**Little Big Brother**

_a simple spell to teach your old guardians that you've finally grown-up_

_because cursing them is the mature thing to do._

Ingredients:

-one boiled egg

Arthur skipped over these, moving directly to the "After-Effects/Cures" section, glad Anges had the foresight (ha-ha) to create such a user-friendly book.

After-Effects/Cures:

_After-Effects: Once said spell is broken, said subject will return back to said original age. There will be a said amount of time in which said subject will be disoriented (usually around thirty-seconds to one minute depending on where the rare purple humming bird is in relation to Neptune. After this period, the said subject will remember nothing about said time spent as said child, only the memory that they were turned into a child. Usually. There are always discrepancies when it comes to your magic, eh Mr. Kirkland?_

_Cures: Simply wait. Said spell will break when it feels the time is right. Sorry Kirkland, you're stuck with the little bugger._

Arthur sighed, closing the book. Now he remembered why he never used this book. It gave him the shivers. A fictional character addressing him was weird enough without them doing it from _beyond_ the grave.

Tossing the book onto his couch, Arthur glared at the clock. Time truly did fly when one was looking up toenail clipping or de-alphabetizing-a-library spell. But it was almost suppertime… Perhaps the spell had already decided to end? It had already put Arthur on edge with just the threat of being stuck with a smaller version of Francis, maybe that was enough.

The great bells or Arthur's doorbell suddenly tolled in accordance with the laws laid down by Murphy. Arthur quietly finished getting his tea ready, telling himself that it was only the postman there to delivery a package. Dejectedly, he opened the door.

"_Bonjour Angleterre_!" A tiny Francis beamed up at him, a beret tilted ever-so-elegantly on his tied-back hair. He was holding a small day bag while his greyish-blue pea coat reached down to the top of his bright red Wellingtons.

Without waiting for an answer, France stepped past the silent Briton, shaking himself off as his boots began to collect a puddle of mud on Arthur's oak floor. "It is pouring out there!" Francis informed Arthur as the closed the door, "I do not understand 'ow you stand it."

"It's bearable." Arthur said awkwardly, looking down at Francis as the pea coat was thrust at him, "You want me to hang this?" He asked, reluctantly taking the small jacket.

Francis nodded, slipping out of his boots and carefully placing them beside the door, avoiding the pile of mud. "_Oui_. Somewhere I can reach it." He brushed his beret free of raindrops, also offering it to the Briton.

Once jacket and hat were put aside (on the lower arms of the coat rack) Arthur led Francis upstairs, taking the bag in one hand and the small nation's hand in the other.

"Where am I sleeping?" Francis questioned, struggling a little with the steps.

At the top of the landing, Arthur turned left, "With me. I can't trust you, you might run amok in the house."

France grumbled. "I 'ave always waited for you to ask me to sleep with you _Angleterre_, but not like this." Despite the adorable pout, Arthur glared down at the young nation, opening the door to his room.

Numerous faeries flittered about the room, chattering to each other, bathing in the fading sunlight. They all flew into the air as the door opened, starting to flutter around Francis, chirruping happily. To Arthur's great surprise, Francis actually lifted a hand, tentatively poking one, causing it to squeak indignantly.

"Ah! _C'est vrai_!" Francis said, clapping his hands over the small faerie, causing the others to scatter. He held it tight like a firefly, giggling, "_Ça chatouille_!" he said, still fumbling to keep a hold on the creature while it desperately tried to escape the tight hands of it's cage.

Arthur could only stare. His mind was reeling from the absolute adorableness of a giggling Francis catching faeries and the fact that Francis could actually see them. Was it just a product of Francis getting his 'child-like innocence back' that was letting him see the faeries? Or has the man just been lying through his teeth?

After a few minutes -and a lot of prodding from other faeries- Arthur stepped forward, kneeling next to Francis. "You have to let it go." He said quietly, putting his hands over Francis', "Or you're going to kill the poor thing."

At the mention of death, the Frenchman's hands flew apart and a very irritated and wobbly looking faerie flew out, fluttering weakly in the air. England gently took the creature from the air, smiling as it buzzed indigently. "See, you have to be careful." He explained to a wide-eyed Francis who was trying to see into his cupped palms, "They aren't like you or I, they're very delicate."

Francis reached forward a tentative finger and, with a little prodding and whispered words from England, the small faerie nuzzled the skin before flittering away, joining it's companions. "Wow…" Francis said, looking at his finger, "_Angleterre_… you have odd creatures in your bedroom." He said, slightly awed and slightly disapproving.

The Englishman shrugged. "Just try not to bother them and they won't bother you." He offered his hand, "Come along, dinner, then bed." Grumbling but taking Arthur's hand anyway. The hand touched by the faerie stayed close to Francis' face as he continued to examine it, even through the poorly put-together meal, apparently so enraptured in it, he didn't even find the attention to complain about the meal.

Arthur had no complaints at all, quietly eating his dinner, finding himself watching the small French nation. He didn't remember Francis being this cute during their childhood, no the Francis in his memories was smug, self-centred and utterly infuriating -even more-so than his present, older counterpart but this new, young version was, like he had thought, rather adorable.

"_A-Angleterre_…" He looked over from the dishes to see France shuffling towards him, rubbing his eyes, "M'tired… Can I go to bed please?" the small child was practically sagging with tiredness and, out of paternal instinct, Arthur reached down, picking him up, carrying him upstairs, feeling the small yawns ghost along the back of his neck.

Once all settled in bed, Francis sank low into one of the large pillows. "_Merci beaucoup _Arthur." He said quietly as the English nation got into his own nightclothes, "I really do appreciate you taking me in." England gave a non-committal grunt, going to his bathroom.

When he returned, he slipped into bed, turning his back to Francis, not keen on being marked as a paedo. Muttering a quiet goodnight, he turned off the light and the room was cast into darkness save for the warm streetlight drifting in through the window.

"I recognize this." Came a quiet voice behind him. Hoping it was some weird sex-toy (but knowing Francis…) Arthur rolled over. And came face-to-face with a small stuffed bunny that Francis had given to him during their younger days. Behind the upheld bunny, Arthur could see the tiny grin a little big of the old Francis shining through the old child. "You kept it?"

Saying nothing, Arthur rolled back over, feigning sleep. Perhaps if he had watched for another moment, he would've seen Francis smile, kiss the bunny's nose before curling around it and falling asleep.

* * *

**Author's Note**

Sorry for the _Good Omens_ references. I've just started reading it and it's simply wonderful~

"_Ça chatouille_" - it tickles


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The morning came misty and only raining lightly, a perfect day in Arthur's opinion. When he woke, it was to Francis nuzzled against him, breathing quietly. Resting there for a few moments, he slowly slid out of bed, making sure not to rustle the small child too much.

Going downstairs, he yawned, stretching as he pulled open the fridge, staring down into it. So, he could try and impress the Frenchman and try and cook something fabulous and most likely fail and be mocked by a tiny Francis. Or he could just stick with something even he couldn't mess up.

Eggs it is. Not boiled of course. Pulling out the eggs, he cracked a few into a bowl, mixing them slowly with a whisk, humming to himself as a drizzly sunlight poked between his kitchen window curtains. Tossing the mix into a pan and adding a little salt and pepper but not wanting to mess it up more.

And then something grabbed onto his leg, clinging to it for dear life. Yelping, he dropped the pan, flailing and looking down. France was on his leg, smiling up at him. "_Bon matin_!" he crowed, nuzzling his face into Arthur's pant leg.

"Oy!" England waved his leg, "Get off!"

"_Non_."

Not keen on arguing or trying to get the French child off -it was far too early- Arthur went back to the pan, catching the eggs just in time to keep them from burning. Walking around the kitchen with the extra weight was hard to manoeuvre with, but not unfamiliar, Alfred and Matthew often did this to him when he was taking care of the pair of them. He didn't complain too much, only attempting to wiggle Francis off his leg once breakfast was served.

Clinging for a few more seconds, Francis let go, grinning up at England. "_Merci~_" he heaved himself into the chair, picking up a fork. "This looks disgusting." He commented dryly, looking at the eggs.

"Then don't eat them." Arthur said easily, sitting next to Francis, starting to eat the eggs.

The Frenchman huffed for a moment before sticking his fork into food and starting to eat it and only frowning slightly, blue eyes actually betraying his surprise.. "These… are not bad. Not delicious, but edible."

"I'm glad his highness approves." Breakfast finished without much more complaint from Francis and after Arthur finished the dishes, he glanced outside again. The sun was weakly shining and his garden was looking rather sad. Humming -after all, there wasn't a world meeting until tomorrow- Arthur started towards the backdoor, stopping only once he felt a tug on his sweater.

"Where are you going?" Francis asked, a hand on his hip, eyebrow quirked.

Arthur opened the backdoor, still humming. "Gardening. It's a beautiful day."

"It is not beautiful."

England smirked. "By English standards, it's bloody brilliant."

Francis had no argument and dutifully followed Arthur outside, pulling on his Wellingtons and stomping around the garden, half-pouting, half-enjoying himself while Arthur quietly walked through his garden, stopping at certain flowers, tending to a few bushes. There is a small maze behind Arthur's house, with tall hedges hiding the secrets inside. No one has ever really been tempted to go in, England's reputation for the occult keeping most people out.

But most people weren't Francis.

Following the butterfly, Francis disappeared into the maze and Arthur, too intent on his petunias, did not see the young boy slip away. Only once he had made sure every single one was cared for did he get to his feet, look around, and see that the Frenchman was gone.

Calling out for the nation as he started to look through his house, England grew more concerned when there wasn't an answer -not even a snarky comment. "This isn't funny France!" he called, climbing up from the basement, growling and running a hand through his hair, "You're going to miss lunch and I'm not making sandwich that will go to waste!" Not even a remark about his food. This _was_ serious.

England wandered back outside, frowning as he watched an entire flock of faeries launch themselves into air, all mutter and flittering about in a distressed fashion. A small purple one fluttered towards him, her voice high-pitched and fast. Arthur listed a hand, gently holding her to his ear. "Calm down Julietta… yes, a small boy with long blond hair, what about him?...He's… no, you can't be serious… damn."

Adam's apple bobbing up and down nervously, the Brit quietly thanked the faerie before tearing off into the maze, voice worn and frightened. "France! Francis! Where are you? Please say something!"

He rounded a corner into the centre of the labyrinth and froze. There, among the soft wavering grass and otherworldly flowers, was Francis, cowering as a large white horse advanced on him. Its horn glinted in the afternoon sun, tossing its wild mane and it's bright, dark eyes stared down at the trembling boy.

Not hesitating, England quickly planted himself between the beast and the small nation. The intelligent eyes turned to him, ordering him to move aside. "No." Arthur responded, not hearing the quiet gasp of surprise from Francis, "He is mine. You can't hurt him."

A low whinny came from the unicorn's chest, but Arthur didn't back down, rather turning around and picking up the small Frenchman, holding him close. "You'll have to go through me."

A tense silence filled the glade only broken by the whimpering half-sobs from Francis. Eventually, the large white head bowed and the beat turned away, plodding down a corridor of the maze, tail flickering out of sight.

"Are you alright?" Arthur asked France quietly, rubbing his back calmingly, "Leave it to you to fall pray to a unicorn."

The small fingers only curled tighter into the fabric of England's shirt, clinging to him. "_A-Angleterre_…" A watery voice choked out into his shoulder, " 'E was going to kill me."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. With a small groan, knees aching in protest, he sat down in the small glade, still holding the child. "Aberforth wasn't going to kill you. He was just going to stomp you until you were nothing more than a pile of little pieces."

Pulling back, Francis glared at the English nation, his large eyes red and watering. His fist weakly beat against England's chest. "That is not funny."

"Oh it's very funny." Arthur reached forward, gently pushing back the hair sticking t the Frenchman's wet cheeks, "How did this all come about? Aberforth isn't a very violent creature..."

France's head bowed in shame. "I t-thought 'e was just a horse with a fake horn. T-That you were trying to trick me… I told 'im 'e was not real and 'e got angry."

Still smiling, Arthur pat the small head. "Silly France," he chastised quietly, "You should know better than to mock the creatures in my garden."

"I 'ave learnt my lesson, believe me." To England's great surprise, Francis hugged him "_Merci Angleterre_. For saving me I mean."

Carefully, he returned the embrace, holding the small child close. "No problem. I'm always saving you anyway." Slowly, he got to his feet, still carrying the young nation, "Here I'll show you something that will make you feel better."

Following down the same path Aberforth had taken, England hummed to himself while Francis clung to him, hiding his face slightly, this world of magic, peeking eyes and flittering fay, Arthur's world, still not sitting with him.

"Look," Arthur nudged Francis' face with his shoulder, gently placing him on the ground, but still holding his hand, "It's my favourite place in the world."

A small corner of the garden was bathed in an afternoon sunshine strained by the leaves of the great oak hanging overhead. A small pond with a waterfall in the centre from which Aberforth was drinking while faeries were weaving flowers and vines into his mane, tittering. Rose bushes were on the outside, overflowing with blossoms of rich, red blooms.

Starting to lead Francis towards the rose bush -the French child still clinging to his hand- Arthur knelt down, shooing a few tiny faeries away and touching a red rose fondly. "This is the same bush that gave you the flowers at Notre Dame," he explained looking over at France. The young boy was not paying attention, his blue eyes still flicking back to the white beast, trembling slightly and gripping Arthur's hand.

Arthur picked him up and sat France in his lap, holding him. Carefully, he plucked the bloom from the bush, placing it in Francis' hands. "It's magic," he whispered, "It will protect you from the things in my gardens, the ghouls in my basement and the creatures that lurk just out of sight, in the shadows and in your nightmares." He gently kissed the crown of Francis' head, "It's a little piece of me you can keep close."

Arthur wasn't sure why he was being so close, but Francis was being ridiculously adorable and wouldn't remember anyway, why couldn't he be bit cuddly?

Cobalt eyes turned to peer curiously at the Briton and for a moment, Arthur could see the ancientness in the gaze. "_Merci encore, Angleterre_." Small lips pressed against his nose, causing a blush to appear there. "I will keep it then."

Touching his nose carefully, Arthur turned his head to the side, mumbling something about it just being a silly flower with a bit of storytelling.

"But it is from you." Francis stood up, hugging the flower close to his chest as he started to wander away. "My favourite bush-browed Englishman in the entire world."

"Oy!" Arthur got to his feet, "They are no bushy!"

Chirruping with laughter, Francis hurried away. "I beg to differ _Angleterre_!"

Growling, but still smiling, Arthur took off after Francis, half-heartedly chasing him through the twists and turns of his maze. Once they both escape from the depth of the hedges, Arthur caught up to the small Frenchman, scooping him up.

"_A-Angleterre_!" Francis squealed as England started to blow raspberries on his stomach, tickling him, "You're going to make me lose my flower!"

Arthur pulled back, smiling at the young nation. "Sorry," he muttered, pressing a kiss to Francis' forehead, "You just remind me of better days."

Before Francis could answer, two voices entered the fray.

"Hey, Franny! Artie! I heart shit is the fan so I came up with a plan!"

"Al… have a little class, eh?"

* * *

**Author's Note**

Aberforth... man, Francis getting his ass kicked by a unicorn gives me the best mental image ever.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sighing heavily, Arthur stared hard at his kettle, the dusty coffeemachine dripping to his left, and the two mugs of warm milk in the microwave. Shouldn't Matthew and Alfred be helping him, not him catering to them while they fawn over Francis? The microwave beeped at him before he could mourn the subject any further and he opened it, taking the two mugs and entering the living room again.

Alfred currently had Francis on his lap, the little shirt pulled up and blowing raspberries on his stomach while the tiny nation squealed in delight, squirming vigorously on the American's legs. His brother was quietly sitting apart from the other two, trying to avoid getting hit by the small feet.

"Ahem." Clearing his throat, Arthur walked into the centre of the room, watching Alfred pick Francis up, placing him on the couch between himself and Matthew. Chest still heaving, France wiped his teary eyes on the back of his hands still grinning widely. "Don't drink it right away." He said, passing the smaller mug to Francis and the bigger one to Matthew, "Sorry, I'm out of hot chocolate."

Before Matthew could shake his head and tell him it was no problem and that he was trying to cut down, there was a sharp hiss from France. "_C'est chaud_!" he said, sticking his tongue out and pulling the mug away from his lips.

"What did I tell you?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow down at Francis.

"N-Not to drink it."

"Lesson learnt then." England sat down in his armchair, watching France glare at his mug before blowing on it, flushed cheeks puffing out. Matthew and Alfred exchanged a quick look before both fixing Arthur with a look that clearly said 'so, Dad's a little kid, care to explain?'

America cleared his throat when Arthur made no answer. "France… when exactly did, uh, this happen?"

Sipping at his milk carefully, Francis pulled back, a small white moustache on his upper lip. "A few days ago. _Angleterre_ was kind enough to take me in." he sent England a smirk that would've suited the older version of the French nation. "I do not know 'ow it 'appened. Truly it is a mystery."

"W-Well…" Matthew piped up, "What do you think England? I-Is there a way to reverse it?"

Shoulders shrugging, Arthur reached over to the coffee table, picking up the spell book, tossing it to the Canadian who caught it, opening to the dog-eared page. "Apparently there's no way to reverse it. It's a waiting game."

Alfred snorted. "That's because it's not _magic_." He said, "It's obvious alien involvement." To his left, Matthew let out a small sigh, shaking his head.

"It is magic." Arthur said, "And scepticism isn't going to get us very fair thank you very much Agent Mulder."

Raising hands in his defence, America shook his head. "I'm just sayin' and," he looked to Matthew quickly, "What do you mean 'us'?"

The green eyes blinked, first looking at Alfred, then to Matthew's slightly guilty face. France, meanwhile, was greedily the milk greedily, apparently oblivious to the goings-on. "Well," Arthur started, slightly cautious, "He's your father… I thought you might want to help him."

In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. Alfred's blue eyes flicked to the kitchen entrance. "Shouldn't you go get that?" he asked, voice weak.

Glaring at his two sons, the Briton slowly got to his feet, leaving the living room with a deliberate slowness. Were his sons really just going to abandon their father like that? Was he really going to be saddled with the Frenchman without anyone to fall back on?

Two minutes later, Arthur was back in his armchair, sipping his tea, a leg crossed over the other and eyes hard while both Matthew and Alfred were looking shamefaced, the American nursing his coffee while the Canadian was having his hair pet by the tiny Frenchman who was sitting in his lap, smiling as the tiny fingers curled into the pale blond hair.

"So you're abandoning him." England said finally.

"Don't be so dramatic Artie." America said placating, "We're busy people! We can't just stop our lives because some magic shit has happened. You'll just have to take care of him. We're too far and I've just passed that big health bill… I can't deal with a kid right now."

Before Arthur could counter the American, to his great surprise, Canada also spoke up, gently tugging his air away from Francis' grasp. "I'd help too Arthur," he said, adjusting his glasses, "But I've got some stuff to deal with… p-post Olympics and everything, and I've got to support Al through this new bill… he needs to see that universal healthcare isn't just for socialists."

"I still think you're a pinko commie." Alfred grumbled but still shooting Matthew a small grin that the Canadian returned. "So yeah, sorry Art, we can't help." The brother, seeing the dirty look Arthur was giving them both got to their feet, Matthew gently placing Francis on the ground.

They were all quiet as they watched Francis toddle over to Arthur's chair, grabbing his leg. The Englishman pat his hair. "I think you can let yourselves out then." He said calmly. Alfred nodded to Matthew who muttered a quiet apology before leaving the room, American following.

Arthur watched them go, hand still on Francis' head until he heard the telltale creak and whine of his front door as it closed. Slowly, he got to his feet, gathering the mugs and walking back into the kitchen, depositing them in the sink. Apparently he _was_ alone.

"It is alright _Angleterre_… really." Francis said suddenly from behind him. He looked down to see the Frenchman tugging at the bottom of his sweater, smiling up at him comfortingly. "They are big boys now, they do 'ave their own problems to deal with, we cannot rely on them for everything."

"I know." England said, sighing and rubbed his temple with one hand, "You'd think they'd at least offer a little help."

The Frenchman chuckled, clinging to Arthur's leg. "What? Taking care of _petit moi_ getting to you?"

Arthur blinked down at Francis, smiling weakly. "Hardly, you're less of a handful than those both were. There's just one of you, not two. Heaven forbid that ever happen." He offered his hand, "How about bed? You must be tired."

Starting to protest, but a yawn interrupting his words, France nodded, taking the proffered hand, leaning heavily on Arthur as he led him upstairs into bed.

Crawling in a few minutes later, pyjamas on, bunny in his lap, Francis watched with sharp eyes as Arthur moved about the room, taking off his own clothes absently humming to himself under his breath. "I want a bedtime story." He announced.

Head turning to peer at the Frenchman, Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Really?" The Frenchman nodded adamantly and Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair, "Well…" the green eyes glanced over to his small bookshelf where all his favourite stories were tucked away together. A particularly old and worn book caught his eye and he walked over, plucking it from between a book of sonnets and a collection of tales from Baker Street.

Francis curled up on his lap as Arthur leaned against his headboard, a pillow tucked in his lower back (a suggestion from Yao to keep the pains away). "What book is it?" the young nation asked excitedly, turning the book over in Arthur's hands to see the cover.

"The Tale of Peter Rabbit," Arthur said, opening the book and smiling at the faded signature within the book before turning his attention to the picture of five bunnies and a small box of text under them. "Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were, Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sandbank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree."

"Rabbits?" Francis interrupted, a small hand reaching out, touches the pale illustration, "You and your rabbits _Angleterre_."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, jaw bumping against the top of Francis' head as he spoke. "Do you want a story or not?" The Frenchman merely sighed, but said nothing, sinking back into the Brit's chest, yawning again.

So England continued to tell the story. He almost didn't even have to look at the words because he knew them so well. They were a part of him, a part of a childhood he never had and for a moment, just a single moment, when dear Peter was fleeing home, Arthur felt a twinge of jealousy towards the young Frenchman.

"I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening." He said, reaching the ending lines of the story, "His mother put him to bed, and made some chamomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter. 'One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time.'," his voice pitched up for the mother's voice before going back to it's usual tone, "But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper. The end."

Closing the book, Arthur looked down at the cover, running a hand over it and smiling. "So," he said, putting the book aside, "Did you like the story?"

There was no answer and, upon closer inspection, Arthur was pleasantly surprised to find a sleeping Francis in his lap, curled into his chest, hair fluttering in time with his slow breathing. The small stuffed rabbit was clutched tight to the Frenchman's chest. Shaking his head and smiling softly, Arthur reached over, turning off the light and curling around Francis, falling asleep quickly.

* * *

**Author's Note**

After two weeks of block, I finally found my writing again. THANK YOU WORLD.

The Tale of Peter Rabbit (c) Beatrix Potter


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Apparently the entire world was no aware that Francis Bonnefoy was, in fact, a child. Theories were beginning to be thrown around, ranging from 'Too much sex makes one short and childish' to 'Arthur beat him so many times over the head that he shrank' and they only seemed to get wilder as the days dragged on. Arthur did his best to balance time between paperwork and taking care of the younger Francis.

A schedule had been developed and silently agreed upon by the two nations. Arthur was usually up by dawn, working on documents and budgets until around nine o'clock when there would be the quiet tip-toe of feet and he would look up to see a little Francis standing in the doorway to his office, rubbing his eyes and looking up expectantly at the Englishman.

Following him downstairs, Arthur would usually conduct cooking under the strict guidance of the tiny Frenchman (who had to stand on a stool to see anything above the counter) and they would eat until around 10 o'clock. From then on France would drag Arthur all the way to Hyde park and make him feed the ducks on the Serpentine before stopping by a shop, grabbing some lunch, usually fish and chips as Francis had grown quite the taste for it, and then returning home.

The afternoon would usually be spent on the couch, Francis having a nap on Arthur lap while he knit or read, or forcing England to play hide-and-seek which really made the English nation discover parts of his house he didn't even know existed. By then, it was dinner, which meant take-out because France was too worn-out to help the Brit cook.

Arthur would then take Francis up to bed, lay him down, read him a bedtime story, which the Frenchman usually fell asleep halfway through, and then return to his office to work on whatever work he hadn't finished during that morning. By midnight, he was usually in bed, sleeping quietly beside the Frenchman curled around the small stuffed bunny.

Usually this agenda went smoothly and for a week Arthur and Francis shared a rather enjoyable time but, on this particular fine and clear Sunday afternoon, the echo of Arthur's doorbell through his home interrupted it.

Grumbling, Francis sat up from Arthur's lap, the small blanket sliding off his shoulders as he rubbed his eyes. England put down his knitting, patting Francis' head, "I'll go see who it is." The Frenchman had no argument but curled back up on the couch, nuzzling deep into the cushions.

As Arthur opened the door he stared at the trio assembled on his front step. "What-" he was cut off as a small Italian peeked around him, pushing him aside. "Ah… Feliciano? Ludwig, Roderich… What are you doing here?"

The German grabbed Italy's shirt, pulling him back slightly. "We are here to see France."

Leading them into the living room, Arthur watched the reaction of the three nations as they saw the sleeping outline of France splayed out on the couch. Ludwig stared for a few moments, cheeks tinting pink as he looked at Arthur as if searching for confirmation that this wasn't all some elaborate prank (England nodded) while Austria had taken off his glasses, cleaning them and replacing them, fingers finding his forehead, shaking his head exasperatedly. The Brit's favourite reaction, by far, was Italy's.

"Big brother France!" he chirruped, floating over to the couch, plopping down and petting Francis' hair happily. "You aren't very big anymore." He noted, quirking his head.

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, France stared at Feliciano then to Ludwig and Roderich. "Bonjour…" he muttered sleepily, trying to flatten his hair back down since Italy's fingers had fluffed it up. "What are you doing 'ere?"

Feliciano smiled, pinching the tiny apple-red cheeks. "We heard you were small and we wanted to check." He said, "And you are!"

While Germany and Austria took the other couch, England sat down in his armchair, content to just watch the other nations try and work out what _exactly_ to do with themselves around the small version of France.

Francis, apparently unhappy with this, slid off the couch, wandering over to Arthur, tugging on his pant leg, frowning slightly. "Arthur… I want to play outside."

"Not now Francis," England said, and France only pulled at the pants harder, starting to whine in French. '_Mais Angleterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre_-' and Arthur found himself standing out of the chair "alright, alright! We'll go."

Germany was already on his feet though, clearing his throat. "I will take him," he said, Italy also getting to his feet. Gently, the German took Francis' tiny hand (utterly dwarfed by Ludwig's) and was promptly pulled outside, Feliciano following them.

The Brit watched them go, doing his best to suppress the urge to follow (fatherly instincts and a general feeling that Ludwig's idea of play involved some for of militaristic boot camp). Instead, he turned his attention to Roderich. "Tea?"

Nodding, Roderich folded one leg over the other neatly. "Black tea if you have it, no herbal, steaming hot and two sugars please." He didn't offer a smile and Arthur remembered suddenly why the Austrian's name had been missing from his high tea get-togethers. Hungary spoiled him.

Fixing tea and bringing it in on a tray, he placed it on the small oak table between them, offering a cup to Austria who took it, first inhaling the slightly sweet smell of the Earl Grey before taking a precautious sip. England watched as the brunet gave a slight nod approval before sitting down, taking his own mug, drinking deeply.

They were quiet for a time, both simply enjoying the tea and rich sunlight drifting in through the large window that overlooked Arthur's spacious backyard and wild garden beyond. "He isn't much different from his usual self?" Roderich suddenly asked, "France seems to have only changed in appearance."

England hesitated. "It… is a curious thing." He said, "Sometimes, it is as if he is simple a compacted version of himself, just as bloody annoying and perverted. But then-" Arthur's mouth stopped working for a moment and he took a rather large gulp of tea to compensate for his abrupt silence.

"But then?" Austria prodded, setting the saucer on his knee, watching the Englishman carefully.

Pressing his thumb along the edge of the mug, Arthur sighed. "But then it's as if he really is a child. Just as innocent and sweet. I'm almost constantly reminded of our days as barely formed entities…" There was silence as Germany ran by the large window, supporting Francis on his shoulders. The petite Frenchman had his arms outstretched as if flying, while Italy flailed after them. Even the stoic blond had a small smile on his face.

"A child." Roderich said, finishing his tea.

That night, Feliciano made dinner. While he busied himself around the kitchen, Germany and France playing assistants, Roderich and Arthur sat at the island of the room, both not gastronomically inclined and choosing to opt out rather than risk hurting their prides. Gathered around the dinner table, it was a surprisingly amiable affair, no fights or arguments breaking out (though it did come rather close when discussing football)

Once finished the meal of pasta, the five nations were curled up in England's living room, the couches having been shifted to surround the heath, a fire burning there while they ate a combination of sweet tiramisu and tea. Outside, a storm had begun to brew and France was curled up next to Arthur, cowering slightly. Even as a adult-turned-child, his fear of thunder and lightning still remained.

Every time there was a rumble, the small fingers tightened into England's shirt, and France would hide his face. Arthur merely pet his hair softly, drinking tea, cooing to him while discussing Greece's tax problems with Germany and Austria, Italy already dozing quietly on the floor, head on Ludwig's feet. "It's ridiculous, he has the money, he just won't pay and we're all suffering." Arthur said, looking down at Francis after a particularly bright flash caused him to whimper.

"I have talked to him numerous times," Ludwig said tiredly while Austria scowled, "but we cannot let him go from the EU… that would only hurt us more."

As Arthur opened his mouth, there was a quiet protest from somewhere near Arthur's side. "Though, you cannot really complain _Angleterre_," France said, a single blue eyes peaked up at him, "your pound is not suffering as hard as our Euro is." And before England could argue back, there was another low rumble and Francis' face disappeared.

Austria smiled vaguely. "Sharp child." He said, delicately finishing off his dessert while the Brit retreated into a grudging silence, fingers carding into the soft blond hair absently. Eventually, the Frenchman fell asleep, nuzzled against Arthur.

Sitting up, suddenly looking awake, Italy smiled. "He is even cuter when he is asleep~" he said, reaching up and touching Francis' hand.

"He is." Arthur said, returning the smile. Carefully, he stood up, lifting Francis into his arms (ignoring the small wet spot of drool on his vest). The small head lolled into the crook of his neck. "I better get him into bed."

Ludwig nodding, using the brief moment the Italian had been awake to get to his feet, moving awkwardly. "They fell asleep." He said to the frowns he was getting from England and Austria, pointing at his feet. "But we will be leaving as well." Germany started to the door, Feliciano and Roderich following while Arthur brought up the rear, rubbing the Frenchman's back softly.

Italy and Austria thanked England, heading down the front drive to the Audi parked there, but Germany stayed behind, fishing keys from his pocket. "There is a conference in two days," he said, "what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to come obviously," Arthur said.

The German frowned, looking at the sleeping nation in his arms. "And him?"

Arthur shifted Francis a little higher in his arms. "I'll…"

"Find a babysitter?"

The Brit scowled. "Protect him from scathing German wit." He sighed, shaking his head, "He is still a nation, I'll bring him along and he'll behave. He won't be any worse than Peter at least."

Watching Arthur carefully, Ludwig nodded slowly. "You are a good father." He said finally, waving his hand before striding down to the car. Closing the door as the Audi pulled away, the Brit went about the rooms, turning off lights and deciding to clean up later before starting upstairs, putting Francis in bed, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"I am a good father…" he repeated. "To my worst enemy and oldest friend. A father." Arthur, instead of doing office work, curled around Francis, smiling slightly.

* * *

**Author's Note  
**

Back from Europe! Lots of writings to post but first must get caught up on homework. Nice to see you all 3


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Arthur was up early again that morning, however he was not in his office as the schedule usually dictated, rather sitting on his back porch in the light morning fog. His sleeves were pushed back and he had a boot over one of his arms, the free hand running an old, worn brush over the leather. The other boot lay in the misted sunlight, gleaming lightly while England rested for a moment, reaching for the tea on a nearby table, sipping before returning to the task.

There was a quiet shuffling of feet and he looked around to see Francis standing in the doorway leading to the backyard, rubbing his eyes sleepily and looking a little miffed. "You were not in your office _Angleterre_." He informed the Brit tiredly.

"Well I was occupied," Arthur lifted his boot-covered hand as an explanation, sliding it off and setting it beside the other one before standing up. "Are you ready for breakfast?" he asked, herding the Frenchman back inside, "We have a conference today, so I expect you to eat something."

France hardly seemed to be paying any attention to the Englishman's words, head turned back to the boots and rainy yard. "I thought you 'ad given that up." He said, pulling himself onto a stool while Arthur carefully cut up an apple, placing it and a glass of milk in front of Francis.

Leaning against the counter, England merely shrugged. "Usually I get them sent in, but on mornings like these," he gestured to the warm sky, "I'll do it myself. It calms me down."

"You did it on the battlefield as well." The Frenchman pointed out, stuffing a cut of an apple into his mouth, chewing. "It makes me happy to see that you 'ave not forgotten your habits."

They finished breakfast in an unusual silence before going upstairs, Arthur getting dressed before helping Francis arrange the suit he had brought, running a brush through the soft hair, tying it back with a silk bow, ignoring the way Francis complained about the tie he was forced to wear.

The conference was being held in the London branch of the centres so a short Tube ride later (Francis kept himself busy with reading the adverts in a loud voice as the car rattled along) they arrived, Francis clinging to Arthur's hand as the Brit held a briefcase in the other.

Ludwig was waiting for them at the entrance, eyes travelling to Arthur then onto the small nation beside him. Shaking his head, he closed the doors to the main conference room after them, taking his place at the head of the table. He started to go through the list of topics they would cover that day, Arthur finding two empty seats side-by-side. Carefully, he lifted Francis into the one beside Canada who gave a small smile, attention going back to the German, then took a seat himself, smiling at Roderich who was on his left.

About five minutes passed before Arthur felt a small tug at his sleeve. He dragged his attention away from the map of the Gulf of Mexico America was forcing them to look over for what felt like the thousandth time. Francis' blue eyes were barely level with the table and England could see him straining to see what was going on, doing everything but standing on his chair. Even now Francis had some dignity.

"Stop moving about," Arthur told him quietly, "they're just discussing the oil spill, you've heard about it before."

Francis sent him a hard glare. "I want to know what they are saying," he sniffed, stretching again, trying to see. "I am still a nation, I should be aware of what is going on in the world _Angleterre_. Now, let me sit on your lap."

Letting out a small choked noise, ignoring the affronted look that Roderich was glowering into the back of his head, England shook his head. "Are you mental!" he hissed, "My lap!"

"_Oui_," Francis said simply. "Or I will cry and everyone will 'ate you forever."

Only managing to sputter indignantly for a moment, Arthur sighed, cursing the little Frenchman before reaching over, hands tucking her his arms, lifting Francis out of his chair and onto Arthur's lap. Both Matthew and Roderich and a few others that had noticed, were staring at the pair as if they had started dancing naked on the table. Merely sinking a little lower in his chair, cheeks burning, Arthur returned his attention to the map while Francis settled down on his lap, now able to see quite fine.

They were almost an hour-and-a-half into the meeting, finishing up with the last subject: Yong Soo's older brother, when Francis started to shift on Arthur's legs, complaining in quiet French. His body moved closer to the Brit's hips.

"Francis," England said quickly, "stop squirming. I am not some paedophile you can just mess with whenever you please!" his voice pitched up at the end of this, the bone in Francis' rear digging into his thigh. His outburst didn't catch too many looks as the meeting was finishing, but the odd glance was sent his way

Pausing in his writhing for a moment, Francis looked back at him, big eyes sad and pouting. "But _Angleterre_," he whined, "you are a terrible chair and my bum hurts sitting still."

Now this statement caught a few prolonged gazes. Arthur's cheeks were a delicate shade of pink as he quickly settled the Frenchman in another chair, looking at a knot in the wood of the conference table, desperately ignoring the murmurs around the table.

This is exactly what Francis would do and it only made Arthur even more uncomfortable to. They'd sit beside each other and the Frenchman would spend most of the meeting making passes, bothering the Brit's feet with his own or casually sliding a hand up his leg only to be squawked at and punched in the shoulder. But Arthur couldn't exactly do that to this Francis, indeed his squirming actually seemed to be completely harmless but this was _France_ they were talking about.

Meeting finishing a few minutes later, Arthur was almost one of the first ones out of the room. He had to get out of the stuffy room with all the stares and the small Frenchman complaining beside him. Hurrying to his car, opening the driver's door and sliding inside, Arthur leaned his forehead against the wheel as his fingers wrapped around the leather, holding it tightly until his knuckles turned white.

There was an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and Arthur knew exactly what it was and that did nothing to improve his mood. He missed Francis. Not this young one, he had plenty of that, but the older one, the one he could connect to. The one that couldn't threaten him with tears and the one he could _feel_ for without being utterly disturbing.

Why was he missing the Frenchman all of a sudden?

A sharp tap came from his window and he jumped, head banging against the horn, causing it to echo as he looked around. Ludwig was standing at the driver's side, Francis, looking absolutely furious with overbright blue eyes, clinging to the German's pant leg.

Sighing, Arthur got out of the car, looking at the tall nation and smiling weakly. Ludwig did not return it. "I believe you forgot something," he said, looking down at the Frenchman.

"Ah… yes…" England went to take Francis' hand but was ignored as France detached himself from Germany and went to the passenger's side, buckling in, "Thank you Ludwig."

Not offering an answer, he walked off while Arthur got back into the car, not bothering trying to talk to the Frenchman as they drove home in a stony silence. Arriving home, Arthur cut the engine while Francis let himself out, walking up the front walkway without waiting.

Making it inside after the Frenchman, England looked around, not seeing him in the kitchen. Quietly, he made his way upstairs, finding a silk ribbon on the floor. He looked down the hall, seeing the rest of Francis' suit strewn out on the oak. Sighing, Arthur picked up the clothes piece-by-piece before arriving at his bedroom.

England pushed the door open and found Francis sitting on the edge of his bed in casual clothes, his back to the door. He stepped inside the clothes bundled in his arms. "Francis I-"

"You were not in your office this morning," France did not hesitate to cut across him, "and you left me at the conference without any explanation. Why?"

Taking his time to fold the clothes and dutifully avoid the question, Arthur took off his own jacket, casting it aside onto the bed before taking a seat beside Francis. Without looking at the small nation, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief, holding it out to France who snatched it without a word, dabbing at his cheeks.

Finally, Arthur answered. "I didn't mean to," he said quietly, "I just had to get out of there. Every nation already thinks I have some kind of paedophiliac obsession."

"You could 'ave brought me. Instead I cling to Germany like, like," Francis struggled to find a word.

"Like a lost child."

"_O-Oui_." France folded his arms over his chest. "What is wrong Arthur? You treat me differently, sometimes you want me and others you will ignore me for 'ours. I do not understand why!"

Before Arthur could answer, the echo of his doorbell sounding through his house. "I'll be right back," he said quickly, sighing and getting up from his bed. Pausing at the door to his bedroom, Arthur looked back at the Frenchman, "Francis… I'm sorry."

Opening the front door, England stared at the two figures there, sagging against the door, groaning slightly. "Not you twats…"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Spain and Prussia stood in his doorway and Arthur quickly slammed it, leaning against it and sighing heavily, rubbing his face. Why them? Did God really think a small version of his lover/enemy wasn't enough, so he threw in the two most annoying pricks on the face of the earth in as well?

"Artie," came Prussia's voice followed by the banging of his fist on the door, "C'mon, let us in, we know you're there. And if you don't, we're totally going to break in through the window!"

"Or use the key you keep under your doormat, sí?" Antonio supplied and Arthur heard them beginning to root around outside.

He quickly pulled open the door, glaring that pair. "Alright, alright," he consented, stepping aside and letting the two amble inside, shutting the door behind him, praying that the sanctity of his home remained as it was.

The two nations worked their way into his living room, Gilbert flopping down on a couch, his foot narrowly avoiding knocking over a priceless vase Yao had given Arthur for his birthday while Spain was looking around at the artefacts around the room, frowning hard at an old cutlass mounted on the wall.

Arthur was about to _not_ offer them drinks when he felt something brush by his hip and looked down to see Francis standing there, clinging to his leg, blue eyes watching his two friends nervously.

"_Bonjour_," he murmured, not quite moving past Arthur despite their disagreement not minutes before. England couldn't help but wonder why.

Then he noticed the gleam in Antonio's eyes as he leered, almost greedily, down at the little nation. "Francia~" he cooed, and England felt the fist tighten in his pant leg, "You are so cute!"

Arthur stayed in front of Francis, petting his head. "Hands to yourself, Spain," he warned, leading France to the couch beside Gilbert and sitting him down.

"Don't worry Artie," the albino picked up Francis, putting him on his lap, tugging at his hair, laughing, "I'll make sure that no awkward child groping goes on."

Trying to not pound his head into the nearest wall, England nodded wearily. "Just… Be gentle Gilbert," he advised, seeing the way Francis was swatting at his hands, trying to deter the albino's prodding touch, "He's just a child."

Gilbert merely laughed, hand finding his hips. "Children are tough!" he said, laughing, "Look at me! I was just a kid and I still kicked half of Europe's ass."

"Too bad you did not continue when you got older," Antonio teased, sitting down next to Francis and Gilbert, earning a punch in the arm from the Prussian. They all quietly looked at Arthur who was still standing in the entrance leading to the kitchen, stuck between keeping an eye on Francis and getting a drink for himself in an effort to emphasise how much he _didn't_ want them there.

Finally deciding going into the kitchen for les than five minutes couldn't hurt, Arthur slipped away, starting to prepare tea, listening to the conversation with only half-an-ear, mostly just waiting for any bingo words that would alert him to the imminent Spanish invasion of the small nation.

Just as he was warming the teapot, preparing to pour in the boiling water, Arthur heard Gilbert speak. "Antonio, stop that, you're going to give him awkward child arousal."

Within thirty seconds, Arthur had locked the two outside into the dusky-streets and taken the extra key from under the mat (he would hide it under one of potted roses later). Grumbling to himself as he walked around the home, securing all the locks on the windows, Arthur sighed, looking out at the approaching storm, feeling the rage and swelling clouds in his bones.

Francis had returned upstairs and the events of the week had finally taken their toll on Arthur. As thunder rumbled and growled threateningly, Arthur flopped down on his couch, opening a bottle of rum and pouring himself a small glass, drinking and finding he still couldn't relax.

Lightning smashed through the sky, and a particularly loud peal of thunder seemed to shake the dust from the rafter of Arthur's house. He took another drink, closing his eyes, trying to sleep. His arm draped over his face and he listened to the pitter-patter of rain against the glass, grinning as he imagined Spain and Prussia stuck in the rain, served them right- a hand tugged at his sweater.

Eyes sliding open, Arthur frowned at the Frenchman clinging to his sweater, face buried away in the knit material, his arm tight around the old stuffed bunny. The tiny body trembled. "_A-Angleterre_…" he whispered.

Arthur quietly lifted Francis up and onto the couch, hushing him quietly and hugging him close. The storm raged on causing Francis to twitch and jump terribly with each crash of thunder. Humming to him, curling around his tiny body, Arthur kissed the Frenchman's ear.

Through the night, Francis managed to get sandwiched between the back of the couch as England's chest, starting to doze, his head hidden in the crook of Arthur's neck. Starting to sleep, a brief thought went through Arthur's darkening mind. Although drinking didn't do the trick and the storm around him merely kept him thinking, the warmth beside him was the only tick to make him fall asleep.

A dreamless sleep passed and Arthur shifted awake, hearing birds outside and trying to shift, but finding himself to be too heavy. Opening his eyes, he sat up weakly and looked down to see what exactly was keeping him on the couch.

France was strew across him, no longer a child.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Arthur breathed out through his nose for several minutes, trying to steady his breathing and not throw an absolute fit. Luckily, Francis had the clothes he had been wearing the night he had fallen victim to Arthur's spell, so at least he wasn't naked. But at this point, Arthur wasn't sure if he really would care that much if he was bare.

He shifted under Francis, trying to get out from under him as the Frenchman snuffled. Arthur found himself looking at a pair of bright blue eyes, a grin spreading across thinner, less rosy lips, angled jaw digging into his sternum.

"Look, Francis," Arthur stuttered, trying to talk quickly, "I know you might be confused as to why you're on top of me, but I can explain-"

"Oh, I know very well why I am on top of you _mon cher_." Francis practically purred, stretching out on England, hovering over him and grinning. Arthur's chest started to heave slightly, "I have something I 'ave been waiting all week to do this." He started to lean down, stubble very clear.

Unable to help himself, the Brit slowly closed his eyes, sitting up slightly to meet the Frenchman's lips and- a hand pressed down on his crotch. Arthur blinked down, then back up at Francis, completely nonplussed.

The Frenchman grinned, fingers teasing playfully. "An entire week spent so close…" he murmured, winking, "and now I can finally do it without feeling like a gerontophile."

A scowl crossed his face and England sat up sharply, head smashing into the Frenchman's forehead, causing the navy eyes to roll back as he collapsed, unconscious on the English nation. Rubbing his forehead, wishing the flush on his cheeks hadn't spread to the very tips of his ears, Arthur leaned back into the couch, punching the passed-out Frenchman's shoulder.

"Idiot."

* * *

When Francis woke up a few hours later (this time on a guest bed, not anywhere near Arthur) he recalled nothing. No matter the prodding and questioning England put him through, the days he had spent with Arthur were blanks. This rather disheartened Arthur, but at the same time seemed right.

Why should Francis remember that? It was a fatherly relationship and if he was going to actively pursue the Frenchman (which he _wasn't_ as he had forgotten what a pervert the man was) it was good that the memories of Arthur scolding him about hot chocolate or getting him dressed for the World Conference were gone. They would be rather awkward in the throes of hard and passionate sex.

"I am sorry _Angleterre_," France called, now seated England's table, holding a bag of ice to his head while Arthur busied himself upstairs, finding all of the small clothes (the beret, tiny Wellingtons and petite peacoat) and placing them in a bag, "I really do not remember anything."

England came down the stairs, the suitcase packed and boots in hand and placed them on the table in front of Francis expectantly.

Running fingers through his hair, gingerly avoiding the lump forming, Francis sighed, putting the bag of ice down. "None of these ring any bells, but they are quite fashionable," he said, picking out the jacket, running his hands over it, "I am still having trouble believing that I was a child, and an even harder time believing that you took me into your home…"

Arthur glared at him, leaning against a wall. "You were a lost child… The least I could do was take you in… We are friends."

"_Oui_, friends" Francis nodded slowly, then rubbed his temple, "I really wish I could remember, the idea of you being a father to me of all people is mad."

Slumping in the chair across from him, Arthur sighed, propping his chin on his hand, fingers drumming against the table. "Maybe I can jog your memory. Do you remember the stuffed bunny; the one you gave me all those years ago? You slept with it every night."

"_Non_. But you still have that? How cute."

"Not the point," Arthur said, "what about the garden? With Aberforth? Or even the faeries, you almost killed one."

Francis shook his head. "Another imaginary friend of yours? And I do not think I can kill things that do not exist."

"A very real unicorn you were frightened of."

Francis snorted; Arthur continued his intterogation, "Feeding the ducks in Hyde park?"

"_Angleterre_, really-"

"Fine, Germany carrying you on his shoulders?"

The French nation chuckled, tucking some hair behind his ear. "I think I would've remembered that." He said, "A big German man running around with a tiny Frenchman on his shoulders? I wish you had taken a picture."

Sighing, England shook his head tiredly. "I wish I had as well, I would have a much easier time convincing you. But I suppose it's for the better, maybe I'll get Matthew and Alfred to tell you the story sometime…" Hearing a set of tires pull up to the front of his house, he stood up, "I already called Sarkozy while you were out, he says the jet is waiting and there's… a taxi just outside."

Francis nodded, picking up the suitcase and boots and following the Brit to the front doors. Francis rested his hand on the doorknob, looking back at his English counterpart. "Well I suppose I still owe you thanks," the hand was offered, "_Merci_."

Taking it, Arthur shook his head, smiling only slightly. "You took care of me when I was a child," he said, shrugging, "I suppose it was time to return the favour." Their hands fell back to their sides and France opened the front door, stepping outside before looking back.

"Ah, _Angleterre_," he said, eyes sparkling slightly "one more thing."

England raised an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

"_Merci_ for the story… I hope Peter enjoyed his tea." The door shut and Arthur stared at it, cheeks turning pink.

* * *

**Epilogue**

Again, Francis found himself sitting in his living room, only a few weeks after the incident with Arthur, drinking wine, this time only a bottle. The window had opened and Arthur, body bound in a white toga and grinning was sitting on the ledge, tiny wings flapping, teeth nibbling the top of his wand in a much-too suggestive manner.

"Ah…" Francis put the bottle down, sitting up and arching an eyebrow at the Englishman, "'ave you come to change me into a child again? Or are you simply-" Arthur fluttered over, plopping on Francis' lap and kissing him forcefully, fingers curling into the shirt.

Eyes only sliding partway shut, Francis' hands automatically touched Arthur's sides, pulling him tighter. Managing to drag his mind away from the hot body pressed against his own, France pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard and watching the Brit with suspicious eyes.

"Just how drunk are you Angleterre?"

Arthur grinned. "Not at all."

end.


End file.
